


In Your Likeness

by hailtherandom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (We're Not Succeeding In Finding Bucky), Banter, Bottom Clint Barton, Casual Sex, Condoms, F/M, M/M, Multi, Natasha Romanov's Black Widow Dildo, Pegging, Porn With Plot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson is Tired, Sex Toys, Steve Rogers Feels, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Natasha Romanov, Top Sam Wilson (sorta), we're up all night to find bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/pseuds/hailtherandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Things are good, he decides as he puts a pot of water on the stove to sanitize Natasha’s dildo. They have a good repertoire between them, with Steve, and fucking at night breaks up the monotony and stress of searching for Bucky during the day. It’s a good system, as far as Sam’s concerned.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And then the box shows up.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Sam gets a mysterious package from a mysterious person and, after a spell of feelings and a trip to Switzerland, both of those mysterious things get used quite a bit, much to everyone's delight.</p><p>(This is a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2359247">By Any Other Name</a> and will make more sense if you read that first, but if you don't want to, this fic will still work fine as a stand-alone. Just check the notes for some cursory details.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Likeness

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, sequel to [By Any Other Name](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2359247), where Sam finds a Black Widow dildo on the internet and thinks it's hilarious, so he orders it for Natasha and tricks her into opening the box, at which point she tosses him on the bed and fucks him with it, also much to everyone's delight.  
> There's just a lot of delight going on in these fics.
> 
> This was intended to be PWP but CLEARLY THAT DID NOT HAPPEN so there are a few Bucky feelings in here, and some leftover "Clint has Loki-related issues" feelings in here, but mostly it's just an absurdly long buildup to threesome porn.

They’ve made good use of the Black Widow dildo in the weeks since the package arrived. They’re almost taking turns now, Natasha fingering Sam open for what feels like hours one night and Sam returning the favor the next. Sam knows he’s walking a little funny two days a week, but he doesn’t mind. Steve has the good grace not to say anything about it, and Natasha comments on it every time she passes him but she does it with affection.

He loves the good-natured teasing they keep up in between gasping moans and stuttered breaths. Sam doesn’t think that he could be with someone who can’t laugh during sex sometimes. He expected Natasha to be serious and intense, her eyes boring into his as she rode him or fucked him, and that’s hot, to be sure. But he likes it so much better when she laughs ‘til she choked because his shoulders slipped off the end of the bed as she thrust into him and then sang two full rounds of the chorus of “Face Down” as he blushed furiously and tried to push himself back up onto his elbows.

Things are good, he decides as he puts a pot of water on the stove to sanitize Natasha’s dildo. They have a good repertoire between them, with Steve, and fucking at night breaks up the monotony and stress of searching for Bucky during the day. It’s a good system, as far as Sam’s concerned.

And then the box shows up.

It’s left on his desk next to his charging laptop, his name emblazoned on the address sticker, a generic company listed as the return that Sam somehow doubts is legitimate. He frowns at the box, prods it gently with a pencil like it will explode, and goes digging through the drawers in the guest room for Natasha’s EMF scanner. All the tests he knows how to run come back clean, but Sam doesn’t trust it anyway, so he resolves to wait until Steve or Natasha gets home to deal with it.

Natasha gets home first - no mission today, just meeting with people who she needs to keep in good relations with or (God forbid) even likes - and tosses her blazer on the couch before throwing herself down on top of it. She closes her eyes and runs one hand through her hair, then looks over to Sam’s desk. “Hey, Wilson.”

“Hey, Nat,” he replies easily. “How was dinner?”

Natasha shrugs one shoulder. “Nice enough. Always fun to eat on Stark’s dime. Pepper’s a nice lady, but she needs to get him a better leash. Or at least a shorter one.”

“I don’t know if anyone could put a leash on Tony Stark,” Sam says.

“You’ve obviously never met Pepper Potts,” Natasha counters. “How was your day?”

“Group was good. I passed a couple recs onto Cassidy. Miss taking my own cases, sometimes, but I know it’s better than I don’t, in case we gotta up and get out on a moment’s notice.”

Natasha hums in agreement. “You’ll get them back soon enough. Steve’s persistent but he’s not stupid. We won’t do this forever.”

“You sure about that?” Sam snorts. He doesn’t expect an answer and Natasha doesn’t give him one.

They sit for a while, and then Sam remembers the box.

“Hey, Nat, you wanna do me a favor?”  
“What’s up?”

“I got a box in the mail and I don’t know what it is. Can you check it out?”

Natasha’s eyes are suddenly sharp and sparkling at him. Sam feels it like a physical touch. “Nice try, Wilson.”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“I fell for it once because you had surprise on your side, but I’m not stupid. What did you find?”

“What did I– no, Natasha, I have no idea what it is, it just showed up on my desk and I didn’t want to check it out ‘til one of you got home.”

Natasha stares at him for a moment, then starts snickering. “Oh my God, did you actually spring for the Captain America vibrator? Steve’s going to combust.”

Sam lets out a frustrated noise. “I ran an electronics scan on it. Nothing tech-y in there. I’m genuinely not sure what it is and where it came from and you’re more qualified to check it out than I am, and if it’s dangerous then I want to get it off my desk before it kills me.”

She must hear something serious in his voice, because her grin falls away immediately and she nods. “Okay, I’ll check. You got a knife?”

He waves a hand. “It’s packing tape. Use your keys.”

She grumbles, but flips through her key ring to find a particularly sharp one. She pushes herself up out of the couch to stand next to Sam’s desk and carefully keys the box flaps open as Sam watches closely, leaning toward the edge of his chair, away from the box.

Natasha gently pulls the flaps of the box open and her face goes completely blank.

“What is it?”

“Oh, no…”

“Nat, what is it? What’s in the box?”

She looks up at him with big eyes. “It’s a weapon of mass destruction.” And then she abruptly dumps the entire box over his head.

Sam yells in surprise and confusion and throws his arms over his head as dozens of small squares rain down on him. Then he stops yelling and puts his arms down and stares at his lap at the puddle of foil packets. “What the hell.”

“It would appear someone has sent you a hundred or so condoms,” Natasha says, completely straight-faced.

Sam picks one up and examines the wrapper. “Where did you order this many?”

“Oh, it wasn’t me,” Natasha says. “You’re a big boy, you can buy your own condoms. You don’t have any, I’ll just fuck your ass until you do.”

Sam smirks a little in spite of himself. “What a deterrent.”

“Maybe it was Steve,” Natasha suggests. “Trying to be a good friend and making sure you don’t get me pregnant.”

“I am so sure that Steve doesn’t think about us having sex that much,” Sam says.

Natasha shrugs again. “I don’t know who else it would be, then.” She drops the empty box on the desk and starts picking up condom packets off the floor.

Sam turns the packet over in his hands are tears the foil open. They’re lubed, he notices, pleased, as he pinches the tip and carefully unrolls it with his fingertips. About halfway down, he notices something wrapping around the sides. He twists it around by the tip and then stares, mouth slightly open, trying to decide whether to laugh or cry.

Natasha notices - of course she does - and she pops up next to him, condoms in hand. “What is it?”

Sam passes it to her without a word and buries his face in his hands.

He hears the latex snap, and then a short but pure burst of silence, and then Natasha lets out a loud cackle the likes of which Sam has never heard from her before.

“Why?” he asks to no one in particular, shaking his head in his hands.

There is a loud thump as Natasha sits hard on the floor, still laughing her ass off.

“It was a _joke_ ,” Sam says, more to the gods than anyone in the room. “I was _kidding_.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Natasha says thickly. Sam suspects she might be crying.

“Where did you even find these?” Sam asks. “A special printer? You got contacts at Trojan?”

Natasha holds up her hands. “I swear, Sam, it was not me.”

“Bullshit. You’re the only one I mentioned Falcon condoms to.”

“I didn’t. Really,” Natasha insists, but her eyes are bright like she knows something. “You can look at my credit card statements if you want.”  
“That will prove absolutely nothing,” Sam says. He steals the condom back from Natasha and examines the image. “They really went ‘generic black dude’ on this.”

“I don’t know, I think it looks kind of like you,” Natasha says.

“It really doesn’t.” Sam turns the condom over and snaps it again. “Good wings but shitty me.”

“Maybe it would look more like you if it was stretched out over a dick?”

Sam opens his mouth to respond, but Natasha’s already laughing at her own joke. “You’re awful. I don’t even know where to start with that.”

Natasha grabs another condom and takes it out of the wrapper and stretches Sam’s latex face with her fingertips. He will never admit it, but that does help a little.

Damn Natasha.

Sam stands up from his desk and pockets a handful of condom packs, then grabs Natasha’s hand and pulls her toward the bedroom. “Come on, we’re gonna try these babies out.”

“But it’s my turn,” Natasha pouts, though she’s already reaching for her shirt buttons.

“I have condoms with my face on them,” Sam says. “It’s my damn turn.

~

The wings, as it turns out, are ribbed. Sam almost cries laughing when he comes.

~

They keep the box under Sam’s bed and a handful of condoms in Sam’s bedside table drawer and it’s hilarious the first few times and then it becomes a non-issue. Sam shows them to Steve and Steve blushes, as predicted, but he also laughs and asks to have one - not to use with anyone, just to have - so Sam forks over five because it’s not like he’s got any shortage of them. He carries a couple in his wallet because they make him smile when he sees them and they’re fun to brag about to his friends when they ask him what he’s been up to, but that’s about it. He only really has sex with Natasha these days - he doesn’t want to risk bringing a civilian into their disaster of a life, and anyway Natasha and Steve are better company than he’s had in years.

Sometimes Sam and Natasha go on “dates” - which consist of staking out bars in D.C. for a few hours to make sure there are no organized crime rings or otherworldly gods using them as a hideout and then getting very drunk and complaining about work and Steve and Bucky fucking Barnes in low voices and sometimes doing very loud, very bad karaoke, if Sam’s been trying to match Natasha drink for drink (which he never wins).

Depending on what state of disaster the world is in, sometimes Natasha’s other friends show up too. Steve has come out a couple times, for the company if not for the alcohol he can’t get drunk on; Pepper dragged Stark out once or twice, which had resulted in spectacular scotch and the worst hangovers Sam can ever remember having; one memorable evening, Colonel Rhodes had picked them up from Sam’s house in a military-issue Hummer and taken them bar hopping and they all woke up on the floor of one of the common rooms in Stark Tower, pillows pressed over their faces and the music of a DVD menu circling on endlessly until Natasha grabbed the remote and threw it straight through the television.

But mostly they go out with Clint.

Clint floats around the East Coast, it seems, dealing with whatever it is that he deals with and then popping back up with new and exciting bandages to watch football with Sam, perched on the back of the couch behind Natasha’s head, and then get slightly plastered to Sam’s terrible rendition of “I Believe I Can Fly” and then floats away again. Sam likes Clint - he’s got a good sense of humor and a sharp wit and a certain beautiful danger to him like Natasha does, but still manages to trip on his own feet in the middle of the street. He makes Sam laugh, and he doesn’t talk about Bucky Barnes very often, so Sam delights in his visits.

The three of them are at a pub tonight, nursing bottles of beer over a half-empty basket of fries and some scraped-clean plates waiting for pick-up. Clint sits on one side of Sam, Natasha on the other. Sam wonders if that’s a planned seating arrangement, to protect the squishy not-super-spy human amongst them, but Natasha’s leaning against his right shoulder as she texts and Clint’s head is bowed low to tell another terrible joke to him, so he doesn’t really mind.

“I need to pee,” Natasha declares, because she doesn’t mince words, and she slides out of her chair and walks off toward the back of the restaurant. Clint and Sam both watch her go, and then turn and grin at each other sheepishly.

“How’re you two doing, man?” Clint asks, dragging a couple fries through a puddle of ketchup and popping them into his mouth.

“Me and Nat? We’re okay,” Sam says. “Steve went out last week, got some cold trail from Hill, but he didn’t find anything and he’s still not home yet. It’s a lot of cold trails, to be honest, and it’s tiring as hell.”

Clint hums. “I know the feeling. You holding up okay, though?”

“Yeah, man,” Sam says, bumping his shoulder against Clint’s. “We mess around at night, it breaks up the stress of being the Barnes Rescue Squad.”

“You need t-shirts,” Clint says seriously. Sam snorts into his beer.

“I expect one on my desk by next week. Get to it, Barton.”

Clint gives a half-hearted salute. “Sure thing, boss. Would’a thought you were tired of boxes ending up on your desk, though.”

“Ending up on my…” Sam trails off and turns to look at Clint. Clint’s staring straight ahead, picking at the label on his beer bottle with the nail of his thumb, the tiniest smirk trying to break out on his face. “You son of a bitch.”

Clint’s lips twitch.

“You sent that fucking box of condoms.”

Clint’s nose wrinkles a little and he takes a hasty sip of beer.

“You son of a bitch!” Sam says, punching him in the arm.

Clint gives up and grins widely, holding up his hands. “Guilty.”

“How the hell did you even know about that?”

“Oh, come on, how do you think I knew about it?” Clint steals another fry. “Natasha told me.”

“Did she have her dick in you when she did? Because she talks about you sometimes when she’s fucking me.”

Clint holds one hand over his chest. “Does she? How romantic.” Sam mock-glares at him and he laughs. “Nah, we were just hanging out. I thought it was too funny to pass up.”

“And Natasha didn’t know you did it?”

Clint snorts. “Natasha knows everything. I bet she thought I wouldn’t do it.” He shakes his head. “More fool her.”

They sit in silence for a moment, then Clint nudges Sam with his elbow. “Have you used ‘em?”

“Seriously? Soon as I got ‘em,” Sam says. “You don’t get a condom with your face on it and just toss it to the side.”

“Mm, fair,” Clint says. “You should give me one, I’ll frame it. Or use it. Who knows.”

“Hey, lemme tell you something.” Sam leans in close and Clint turns his head a little, raising his beer to his lips. “The wings are ribbed.”

Clint snorts again into his beer and starts coughing, wiping at his face furiously. “Christ, Wilson,” he chokes out. Sam smiles smugly and sits back in his chair.

“So you definitely gonna need one now, right?”

“Definitely,” Clint echos, grabbing a napkin to mop up the spilled beer on the table. “Use that for the army if they bring the Falcon project back. ‘Falcon EXO-7 wings: ribbed for her pleasure’.”

“Or his,” Sam says.

Clint raises one eyebrow. “Or his,” he says eventually. “You got one on you?”

“Yeah, actually.” Sam digs out his wallet and produces two foil packets and sets them on the table between them.

Clint laughs. “You actually carry them with you? Even I didn’t do that.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

“I am a fucking liar,” Clint agrees. Sam clinks his beer bottle against Clint’s and drains the last few sips.

A couple minutes later, Natasha comes back, knuckles red and hair tousled. Clint glances at her and says, “How was the bathroom?”

“Poorly prepared and lacking foresight,” she replies, combing her hair back into place with her fingers. “Disappointing, to be honest.”

“Shame.” Clint reaches into his back pocket and grabs his wallet. “I’ll split.”

Sam forks over a twenty and Natasha passes on a ten and Clint gets up to go pay at the bar. Natasha puts her jacket on, zipping it up about halfway, and lean against the table.

“So Clint sent the condoms,” Sam says conversationally.

“Yeah, I know.”

“When’d you figure it out?”

“When I saw they had your face on them.” Natasha grins at him.

Sam shakes his head. “Typical.”

“Did he ask for some?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods at the two condon packets on the table. “I gave him both. Don’t know why he doesn’t have any, since he sent them, but, you know. Anything for Clint.”

“Anything,” Natasha repeats, amused.

“You know what I mean.” Sam pushes his chair away from their table and folds his coat over his arm. “If he wants me condoms, he can have ‘em.”

Natasha smiles cryptically at him, and then Clint comes back, shoving a receipt and a few dollars in change into the pocket of his jeans. “I’m kinda drunk,” he declares. “Can I crash on your floor tonight, Sam?”

Sam sighs dramatically. “I guess.”

“Awesome.”

The walk back to Sam’s house is cold but mercifully short. Sam keeps trying to get them to walk places - he claims it’s good for them, but he’s also kind of nervous about taking his new car out in case someone rips the steering wheel out again - and he curses himself for it as he pulls his hood over his head and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. Clint and Natasha look mostly unaffected, bantering cheerfully as Sam trails after them.

Sam offers up the guest room to Clint and Natasha quickly declines for him, claiming that any bed shared with Clint becomes Clint’s bed, but she doesn’t really mean it. Sam can hear them talking in the next room as he changes, muffled words interspersed with laughter that lapses into silence after a while. He hesitates for a moment, then stops by the guest bedroom door, leaning in the doorway, to tell them both good night.

Clint and Natasha are kissing, though not desperately. They aren’t moving to tear each other’s clothes off, or ducking down to tear at the skin of each other’s throats; they’re lying on the bed, barely touching, lips pressed together and maybe one hand on each other’s side for balance. Sam feels the breath go out of his chest and he thinks that he should walk away, that he’s intruding on something that he wasn’t meant to see, and then Clint’s eyes flicker open and he sees Sam in the doorway.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Clint doesn’t stop kissing Natasha and Sam doesn’t move from the doorway and they just look at each other. Clint’s gaze is like a physical thing pinning him to the ground and Sam couldn’t move if he wanted to.

He finds that he doesn’t want to.

Clint’s eyes darken a little, and Sam’s throat goes dry. He opens his mouth to– to what, he doesn’t know, he has absolutely nothing planned to say, and then Clint and Natasha break apart. He can see that Natasha’s eyes are closed and Clint reaches over and tucks her head into the crook of his neck. The corner of her mouth twitches up and she sighs quietly and Clint’s eyes flicker down to her for a second fondly, and then back to Sam. Sam takes a small step back and Clint’s eyes flash and he very subtly, possibly even unintentionally, licks his lower lip.

Sam blinks and bites his own lip gently and something in Clint’s face shifts from intense to what Sam thinks is pleased. Sam abruptly feels self-conscious and tears his gaze away, rubbing the back of his neck and pulling away from the doorway. Clint watches him leave and stares at the empty doorway for a moment more before burying his face in Natasha’s hair and wrapping his arms around her. She sighs again and settles against his chest, her breath rushing against the hollow of his throat.

In the next room over, Sam leans against the wall, hands over his face, and tries not to remember how intensely Clint had looked at him.

It doesn’t work.

~

They all have breakfast together with minor hangovers and a lot of cereal. Sam doesn’t think that Clint and Natasha had sex last night, but they do look very tired. He knows they didn’t get back that late last night, and wonders if they just didn’t sleep last night or if something else had happened.

Clint reaches for Sam’s orange juice and uncaps it and is about to pour it into his cereal when Sam’s hard darts out and knocks it away. Clint blinks down at the bottle, then at his cereal, and then drops his head onto his folded arm with a tired groan. Sam chuckles quietly and screws the cap back on before Clint can get it all over the table by accident.

Natasha’s eyes are barely open as she spoons cereal into her mouth, but Sam can see her looking back and forth between Clint and Sam. He feels oddly aware of his body, aware of the fact that his hand is still hovering next to Clint’s head, on top of the orange juice. He feels like a teenager again and he doesn’t know why.

Clint props himself up on one elbow and starts eating his cereal dry, apparently unwilling to try again with milk. Sam smiles faintly to himself and takes another bite of toast. He had been  the only one awake enough to actually use any appliances, so he got hot breakfast and Clint and Natasha were relegated to arguing over Steve’s cereal choices in the top cupboard in the kitchen.

He chews for a while, closing his eyes like the toast is better than mediocre, and when he opens them, Clint is watching him again. There are circles under his eyes and the rest of his body looks so relaxed it’s almost limp, but his eyes are sharp as always, flickering over Sam’s face like he’s looking for something. Sam swallows his mouthful of bread and stares right back, even though his heartbeat is pounding in his chest. Clint doesn’t even blink, and it’s a little unnerving, how pure and unerring his gaze is, but Sam refuses to look away like last night. He’s determined to meet Clint stare for stare, second for second, because he’s stubborn and because something about Clint looking at him draws him forward and because he doesn’t understand what it is.

He’s not sure when Natasha moves to sit next to Clint, but he sees her reach over and run her hand along the back of Clint’s neck. Then she squeezes - he sees the tendons in her wrist tighten - and Clint’s eyes abruptly fall closed and he lets out a shaky breath. Sam swallows hard and sits upright again, shoving half of the rest of his piece of toast into his mouth because he doesn’t know how to react to this, especially since Natasha is doing it right in front of him.

He doesn’t think he likes her gaze traded for his, but Clint’s head is bowed a little now, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp little breaths, and Natasha is keeping the pressure while her eyes bore into Sam’s like she’s waiting for something. Sam wants to ask what is it she wants from him, but he also doesn’t want to break the tension.

So he reaches over, let’s go of the orange juice and lets the palm of his hand settle on Clint’s exposed wrist, along the tan line from his finger guard. Clint shivers a little and turns his wrist over, so that his palm is facing up. Sam recognizes it as a show of submission, one that he would never have expected from Clint or Natasha or anyone in their line of work, but here they are, with Natasha gripping Clint’s neck and Sam running his fingertips over the veins in Clint’s wrist and the silence drags on and on and on until Clint finally raises his head to look at Sam a little and his eyes are dark again, pupils blown past their normal state, mouth just slightly open. He licks his lower lip again and Sam bites his own in return and Clint lets out a breath that Sam didn’t know he was holding.

Natasha lets go of Clint’s neck and, like it was the only thing holding him back, Clint reaches forward and catches Sam’s face in his hands. Sam rushes up to meet him and their kiss is desperate, in a way that Clint and Natasha’s wasn’t last night. Clint’s hands are on the sides of his neck, on his shoulders, gripping his biceps, and Sam just tries to hold on because Natasha kisses like she’s in charge but Clint kisses like he’s dying, like Sam is his last breath, and Sam finds himself envious of Natasha if she gets to feel like this any time she’s with Clint.

Sam eventually has to break away to breathe and Clint follows him, leaning forward out of his chair and reaching for Sam again. Sam thinks he flushes a little because Clint looks like he’s about to climb over the kitchen island just to get to him, and Natasha must notice too because her hand is back on the back of his neck and Clint visibly shudders under her grip and goes still again. Sam looks back and forth between them, and finally bring himself to meet Natasha’s eyes.

She smiles at him and raises her eyebrows. Sam nods a little and she nudges Clint out of his chair. He stumbles a little bit - Sam thinks that his legs try to give out underneath it, and Clint on his knees is just a mental image that he doesn’t need right now if he wants to stay in control of himself - and then catches himself. Natasha pushes him forward around the island and Sam reaches a hand out and Clint all but falls into him. Sam takes control of the kiss this time, like he suspects Clint might want him to, fingers lacing around the back of Clint’s neck where Natasha’s hand was moments before. Clint relaxes against him, hands on Sam’s thighs, when their lips meet again.

Sam’s not sure how long they stay there for, because Clint is the sort of person that it’s easy to get lost in. He recognizes, vaguely, that Clint’s hands are skimming under his shirt, that Clint’s knee is nudging his legs apart, that Clint is panting shallowly every time Sam draws away for a breath, and he groans in frustration with himself when he pushes Clint away a little.

“What…?” Clint breathes out, eyebrows drawn together.

“Just…” Sam sighs and shrugs one shoulder. “This is fast, you know? I need a bit.”

Clint blinks at him, hazy and cold at the same time.

“I just need a little time,” Sam says. “I don’t want to do… this,” he motions between them, at the kitchen island, at his half- finished toast and Clint’s dry cereal. “Right this second, I mean.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d say Clint was blushing a little. The man lowers his eyes and carefully withdraws his hands, not meeting Sam’s eyes anymore. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Misread… I just thought…”

Sam takes Clint’s hands and puts them back on his thighs. Clint looks at them, confused, and then up at Sam’s left cheek.

“You didn’t misread anything,” Sam says gently. “But just… Not right now. Let’s work up to it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clint says quietly. He still doesn’t look completely convinced, but he doesn’t try to pull back any farther, not with Sam’s hands on his.

Sam smiles a little, hopes it’s warm, and then pulls Clint into another kiss by his elbows. Clint comes, hesitantly, but Sam knows this kind of uncertainty and he builds up a rhythm between them that Clint can follow safely without having to worry about overstepping. Clint doesn’t exactly fall into it, not like last time, but he hums into Sam’s mouth and his grip tightens on Sam’s thighs every once in a while and when Sam opens his eyes, just for a second, Clint’s not panicking or looking for Natasha or anything. He seems willing to take whatever Sam will give him, nothing more now that he knows Sam’s boundaries.

He hears a shuffling noise and then two small hands settle on his forearms. It’s Natasha, pressing up behind Clint, wrapping herself around him. Grounding him, Sam suspects. They ground each other all the time, in fights and nightmares and bad movies and silent moments; he should have expected that she would ground him here too.

And then she draws away, leaving the two of them together. Clint’s body follows her, probably instinctually, and his eyes finally open. He looks at Sam for a moment, then ducks down and rests his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam rubs his shoulders gently, feeling the buzz of Clint’s groan in his shoulder, and regrets the loss when Clint sits up again.

“I should head out,” Clint says. “I have a… thing, there’s guys, you know. They’ve got vans and stuff, I should get back, it’s a drive…”

“Clint.”

“Really, there’s these dudes and they’re raising my rent and I think someone’s gonna get kicked out and I wasn’t in Bed-Stuy yesterday and I should do something about it and it’s like four hours back…” Clint shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks his foot along the carpet. “Not that I mind driving, I like it, but it’s just kind of a ways–”

“Clint.”

Clint falls silent.

Sam puts one hand on his shoulder. “You’re fine. You didn’t fuck up. It’s okay.”

Clint swallows hard and nods a little. “Okay. Okay. I just didn’t want to… I mean if you didn’t want to…”

“I know,” Sam reassures him gently. “And I do want to. But later.”

“Okay.” Clint reaches up and squeezes Sam’s hand, then pushes it off of his shoulder. “I do have to go, though, actually, it is a long drive and I am worried about my rent. So I’m gonna go get my stuff.”

He turns on his heel and disappears into the guest bedroom, then reappears a moment later with his shoes and a pair of sunglasses on, jacket in one hand and keys in the other. He nods at Natasha, then at Sam. “Was good to see you guys.”

Natasha leans over and he kisses her, and then he hesitantly kisses Sam on the way out the door, and then he’s gone, pulling out of Sam’s driveway and speeding away down the road. Sam watches the back bumper disappear, then rubs his face with one hand.

“Sorry about that,” Natasha says, sitting back down at the counter.

“Nah, it’s fine. You don’t gotta apologize for him. I know it’s rough once you’ve had your own consent messed with,” Sam replies. “I’ve seen that plenty before. It fucks people up.”

Natasha hums and steals a bite of Clint’s half-finished cereal. “He really likes you, you know.”

“I kinda got that when he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth.”

She wrinkles her nose. “He did not. Clint’s got way more finesse than that.”

Sam glares at her. “You know what I mean.” He tears at the edge of his napkin a little bit. “I should’ve made him stay and talk.”

Natasha scoffs quietly. “No one on this Earth can make Clint stay anywhere he doesn’t want to be,” she says. “And fucking no one can make him talk about something he doesn’t want to talk about.”

Sam sighs and picks up his half-finished toast. “He’ll be alright, yeah?”

“Yeah, he’ll be okay. Next time, you should initiate, though.”

“That won’t freak him out?”

Natasha shakes her head. “He’ll trust you a hell of a lot more if you start it.”

“Huh.” Sam thinks it over a little, then shrugs one shoulder and takes a bite of cold toast. “Maybe I’ll text him later.”

“Maybe he’ll answer.”

“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Sam says.

“No,” Natasha agrees. “Me neither.”

~

They don’t see Clint for a couple weeks after that, because Steve comes home in a blaze of American Airlines-fueled energy and announces that they’re all going to Switzerland. Sam thinks, as he sits in the aisle seat across from two small children crying, that maybe he regrets agreeing to follow Steve on their search for Bucky. Just a tiny little bit.

Switzerland is lovely this time of year, but it’s as cold as the trail one of Hill’s contacts passed onto them. A few civilians admit to having seen the Winter Soldier, but no one knows where he could have gone afterwards. Steve puts a small dent in the wall of what Sam thinks is a historic building and the three of them hurry away before any security guard can see them and tell them that Captain America’s influence does not reach European borders.

Clint does text back, on Natasha’s international phone. Natasha guesses that he’s bored. Without SHIELD, there’s a lot less for them to do, and getting a job after being outed as an ex-carnie mercenary-turned-assassin is (not surprisingly) very difficult. He sends them pictures of his apartment, of him with Starbucks, of Stark Tower (Natasha feels a tiny rush of affection when he tells her that Bruce is back at the Tower again and she resolves to see him when they make it back stateside). Sam laughs long and hard when Natasha wordlessly shows him a picture of a flock of pigeons captioned “thinking of you <3”.

They don’t talk seriously, save for one night when Sam borrows Natasha’s phone and texts you doing ok? He waits a while before a reply comes back.

**(00:54) Barton: Is this Sam?**

**(00:54) Romanoff: Yeah man.**

**(00:55) Barton: Did something happen?**

**(00:56) Romanoff: No, everything’s fine here.**

**(00:57) Barton: Shit man you scared me for a second.**

**(00:57) Barton: Was about to go hijack one of Starks planes.**

**(00:58) Romanoff: No we’re good.**

**(00:58) Romanoff: Steve’s frustrated obviously, me and Nat are cold.**

**(00:59) Barton: Nat doesn’t get cold she’s Russian.**

**(01:00) Romanoff: Okay I’M cold.**

**(01:00) Romanoff: We’re coming home soon. Steve doesn’t want to stay but doesn’t want to go in case we find something.**

Sam holds Natasha’s phone in his hands, waiting for the buzz of a new message. It takes a worryingly long time.

**(01:12) Barton: Barnes is long gone by now. Tell Steve to come back.**

**(01:12) Romanoff: How do you know?**

**(01:13) Barton: He wouldn’t stay.**

**(01:13) Barton: Staying is dangerous when you dont want to get caught.**

**(01:13) Barton: I doubt he is still in Europe.**

**(01:14) Romanoff: Probably not.**

**(01:14) Romanoff: I’ll check out plane tickets in the morning. It’s like 1AM right now.**

**(01:15) Barton: Have fun flying coach.**

Sam reaches over and plugs Natasha’s phone into its charger and leaves it on the table between them. He lies there in the dark for a little while, fingers tapping against his thighs through the blanket, and then he frowns at himself and takes the phone back.

**(01:21) Romanoff: Hey Clint?**

**(01:22) Barton: Still Sam?**

**(01:22) Romanoff: Still Sam.**

**(01:22) Barton: What’s up Sam**

**(01:23) Romanoff: You never answered my question.**

**(01:25) Barton: What was it?**

**(01:25) Romanoff: Are you doing okay?**

**(01:26) Barton: Oh yeah.**

**(01:26) Barton: I’m ok man. Worlds going to shit as usual but I still have my apt and a nice six pack and some old movies I forgot about, so tonight’s going to be good.**

**(01:27) Romanoff: Ok but are YOU doing ok?**

**(01:29) Barton: I’m doing ok.**

**(01:29) Barton: Not lying.**

**(01:29) Barton: Smart enough not to lie on Natashas secure line.**

**(01:30) Romanoff: Ok I believe you.**

**(01:31) Romanoff: I need to sleep now, it’s 1:30 and Steve wakes up at like 6.**

**(01:31) Barton: So do you.**

**(01:32) Romanoff: Not in Zurich.**

**(01:32) Barton: Lol**

**(01:32) Barton: Night Sam.**

**(01:33) Romanoff: Good night Clint.**

Steve wakes them up in the morning looking defeated and announces they’re going to Winterthur and then they’re going home. He clearly doesn’t expect to find anything there, and neither Sam nor Natasha think so either, but watching Steve become more and more downtrodden the longer they’re overseas is difficult so they don’t say anything. They just pack up their duffel bags and check out of their hotel and catch a train to Winterthur and get a new hotel there and they do it all over again.

They spend two days in Winterthur and one night in Aarau, and then they go back to Zurich and catch a plane to Heathrow and another plane to New York City and then another plane to Washington DC and by the time they push the door open, the three of them are so tired that they crawl into their respective beds and pass out without even doing their standard security checks. The house has gone unlived in for over two weeks and it has a certain undisturbed stillness that tells Sam nothing new is here, even if someone has been inside. His brain accepts that as safety and allows him to sleep without worrying about Barnes hiding out in his room when he was four thousand miles away.

Sam, still on Swiss time, wakes up in the middle of the night to what he realizes is Steve crying in the living room. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling for a long while, and then rolls out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and creeps out into the common areas. Steve is hunched on the couch, shoulders shaking slightly, backlit by the streetlights shining through the windows. Sam watches him for a little while, because Steve is beautiful, even when he’s in pain, and because he doesn’t know how to fix this kind of pain. Bucky Barnes is more extreme than anything Sam was ever trained for, but he agreed to help, and so he does.

“Hey, man,” Sam murmurs, sitting gingerly on the couch.

Steve starts a little, then slumps against the back rest. “Hi, Sam.”

“What’s up?”

“Just tired,” Steve says. He rubs at one eye with the back of his hand. “Frustrated. Every time I think we’re getting close....”

Sam nods and reaches out his hand. Steve stares at it, and then at Sam, and then he laces their fingers together. Sam squeezes and Steve squeezes back and sighs.

“I don’t think he wants to be found,” Steve says. Sam flinches at the despair in his voice. “We keep looking and he keeps running and maybe he doesn’t want to come with us.”

“That’s… possible,” Sam says hesitantly. “Maybe he just needs time to get himself together.”

Steve snorts. “What self?” he asks coldly. “You were the one who said that he wasn’t Bucky anymore.”

“That was before he saved you,” Sam says. “And I don’t know, Steve. Maybe he’s there. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s hiding from you and maybe he’s doing his own thing. We don’t know. There’s no way to know.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice is tight. His face is tight. His grip on Sam’s fingers is tight. His whole body is tight.

“C’mere,” Sam says. He pulls on Steve’s arm and lets Steve lean into him, wraps his arms around Steve’s impossibly broad shoulders and lets Steve cry on him. It’s a terrifying sort of experience; his mind wanders to his high school history textbooks and he remembers pictures of Captain America saluting with one hand and holding a Nazi by the collar in another or some other ridiculous piece of propaganda they made him pose for, but here’s Captain America now, broken and miserable and exhausted from a quiet fight he never intended on fighting. Sam runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, rubs his back, makes shushing noises like his mother used to when he got overwhelmed as a child, and eventually it seems to work. Steve calms down a little, from full-on sobbing to muffled sniffling, and when he starts talking again, he doesn’t look up from Sam’s chest.

They’re there for hours. The sun is starting to creep up by the time Steve talks himself out and they’re both asleep on the couch. Sam has nightmares about the things Steve’s told him - nightmares of flying into the Helicarriers and having his back shot up and falling into an icy ocean (or the icy Potomac) and of Riley being alive, staring at him through haunted, blank eyes with no flicker of recognition. He wakes up with a start, sweating, Steve snoring quietly against his neck, and it takes a few seconds of staring wildly around the room to remember where he is. His own house. Washington DC. It’s 2014 and the world isn’t dust and dry heat. It’s midday, judging by the shadows cast on the carpet, and Sam senses that Natasha isn’t around - the air smells slightly damp, like she showered before she left, and the guest room door is slightly ajar. She’ll be back, he knows. He just doesn’t know when.

Sam carefully disentangles himself from Steve and retrieves a blanket from the closet to throw over him. Steve makes a little grunting noise in his sleep and immediately wraps the blanket tighter around himself. It would be kind of cute, except Steve’s eyes are still rimmed dark and red from crying the whole night before, and Sam doesn’t feel much better.

He runs a shower as hot as his pipes go and stands with his face directly in the spray. Being friends with Steve Rogers is difficult. It’s fucking difficult. He doesn’t regret a thing, but they’re all trying to get back on DC time and Sam thinks they may have overshot it. His body aches from the plane rides and the cold. His mind is turning over and over with the things he now knows about Steve and Bucky fucking Barnes.

“You signed up for this,” Sam reminds himself out loud, and then shakes his head. He knows he signed up for it, but he also knows he needs a break. None of them will hunt for Barnes today, or tomorrow, or probably for a while, and Sam honestly doesn’t mind. He’s tired and he wants to go out and pretend like Bucky Barnes isn’t out there somewhere, plotting their murder or possibly his own escape. The constant pound of water against his head agrees.

He gets out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist and runs straight into Steve as he goes into his bedroom. Sam scrabbles at his towel, gripping the two corners tightly together. “Hey, man.”

“Hey. Um…” Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot and Sam notices he has a half-filled duffle bag in one hand. “I’m thinking of going to Brooklyn for a few nights.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Just… because?”

“Think it might do me good,” Steve says. “I love your place and all, love sharing it with you and Nat, but…” He gestures around the room. “It’s not home, and I think I want to go home for a bit.”

Sam nods. “I understand. You got my number, man. You call if you need us, alright?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says. He gives Sam a small but genuine smile and Sam returns it, clapping Steve on the shoulder and squeezing before going to his dresser to put on underwear. Steve bustles around the bedroom and the bathroom for a moment, grabbing his toothbrush and an extra towel and a pair of jeans, and then he’s out the door, the familiar rumble of his motorcycle fading away as it drives down the street. Sam stares at the wall like he can see Steve turning the corner and fading into the distance, and then he flops back onto his bed. The silence of his house is slightly stifling but nice. He hopes Natasha will be out for a few hours.

He rolls over to check his phone and sees two new texts. One is from Natasha, a string of words and symbols that it takes him a moment to work out the code for (she’ll be home around four in the afternoon). The other one is from Clint.

**(10:44) Clint Barton: I was at foodtown and someone asked if I was the falcon. What do you think? Bow and arrow or wings?**

Sam laughs to himself and tries to imagine firing arrows while flying two hundred feet in the air.

**(12:17) Sam Wilson: Wings, easily.**

**(12:18) Clint Barton: Aww Sam.**

**(12:18) Clint Barton: Harsh.**

**(12:19) Sam Wilson: Gotta be in the air, man.**

**(12:19) Clint Barton: Freebird!**

**(12:20) Sam Wilson: Shut up dude it was one time.**

He smiles at his phone, imagines Clint pouting at him, and finds that he's missed him over the past few weeks. Sam bites the inside of his cheek and remembers what Natasha told him, back before Steve came back, and decides that his break could use some initiative.

**(12:21) Sam Wilson: Hey speaking of do you want to come down tonight?**

**(12:21) Sam Wilson: Steve went back to New York so me and Nat are free for the next few days.**

**(12:22) Sam Wilson: And I had a long ass few weeks and I wanna go out and unwind.**

**(12:24) Clint Barton: Are you sure?**

**(12:24) Sam Wilson: Yeah.**

**(12:24) Sam Wilson: I want you to come.**

He doesn't realize he's nervous until his stomach is fluttering with anxiety. He doesn't think Clint is still upset about that night but he knows that sometimes Clint takes a while to recover from being triggered.

**(12:27) Clint Barton: Yeah man. I'll head out in a couple hours. Got some stuff to do first but I'll hit the road at 2.**

**(12:28) Sam Wilson: Awesome. Nat gets home at 4. We'll see you.**

**(12:28) Clint Barton: Cool**

Sam, recognizing the conversation to be over, tosses his phone to the side. He should really get a burner phone, he thinks idly. Imagine HYDRA tracking him down because he wanted to fuck one of their enemies.

Not that he only wants to fuck Clint. He genuinely misses the man and could do with his perverse sense of humor today. But he won't deny that getting to fuck him wouldn't be a nice addition to the night, if Clint wants to.

Sam doesn’t know when exactly he fell asleep again but he wakes up to Natasha coming home and shutting the front door. He jerks upright and flails and falls off the bed, his towel dropping over him. Natasha must hear the thump because she comes running in, one hand inside her jacket, and looks around the room for a moment before she finally sees him.

Sam motions at the bed and the damp spot he left on the duvet after not drying off and says, “I fell off.”

“Clearly,” Natasha says, amused. “Come on, get up, be presentable. We’re going out tonight.”

“Yeah, I know, I meant to text you,” Sam says, leveraging himself up off the floor.

“Clint did. He’s somewhere on the I-95, he’ll be here in an hour.”

“What? How long did I sleep?”

Natasha looks at her phone. “I don’t know when you fell asleep but it’s about seven right now.”

“Aw, shit,” Sam says, picking his towel up off the floor. “Weren’t you going to get back at four?”

“I did get back at four, and then I left again,” Natasha says. “I had to take some stuff to the dry cleaners.”

“You had to– okay.” Sam knows better than to ask. “I don’t remember you coming back.”

“You were out pretty hard. I know babysitting Steve takes a lot of out of a guy so I left you there. Gotta get rested up when you can,” Natasha explains. “But we’re going out in like an hour and I know you’ll want to get all pretty for Barton, so get to it.”

Sam throws a pillow at her. She catches it and throws it back on the bed, covering the damp patch. “I’m not gonna get ‘pretty’ for Clint.”

“Yeah… You’re pretty enough already. Put me to shame.” She gives him a teasing smile, then backs out of his room, closing the door behind her. Sam stares at the towel in his hands and tosses it in the direction of the bathroom.

He realizes quickly that Natasha managed to get in his head again, because he’s standing in front of his closet debating the pros and cons of one shirt against the other, and decides he’s being completely ridiculous. He’s going out to unwind, not to go on a date with Hawkeye, so he throws on a button down and slams his closet closed and then ends up back in front of it two minutes later cursing under his breath.

Natasha smirks at him when he emerges half an hour later, and he flips her off without looking at her. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “You took thirty-five minutes to get dressed.”

“I shaved too,” he says defensively. “A little.”

“A little.”

“Yeah. Can’t you tell?” He turns his face from side to side.

“You’re cute,” Natasha says. He punches her lightly in the arm and she pretends like it hurts.

She’s watching some old movie on TV so he sits down next to her and watches it with her to have something to do. Sam doesn’t really like old movies very much but sitting with Natasha curled up against his side is nice.

They’re startled out of a commercial by a loud honk outside Sam’s house. Natasha’s on her feet before Sam even realizes she’s moving. “Come on, we’re taking Clint’s car.”

“Is there something special about Clint’s car?” Sam asks as he follows her to the door. He grabs his jacket on the way out and then nearly drops it when he comes face to face with Clint’s bright-ass red Challenger idling in front of his house. “Damn, boy.”

Clint rolls down the window and salutes Sam with two fingers. “Hey, Wilson. Hey, Nat.”

“Is this yours?” Sam asks.

“Hell yeah it is,” Clint says. “Bought it off of a questionable girl but it runs like a dream and it’s sexier than I am.”

“Like that’s hard,” Natasha quips as she slides into the passenger seat. Sam climbs into the back and shoves a bulging quiver out of the way.

“I’m wounded,” Clint says, clutching his chest with one hand as he puts the car in drive and takes off down the road.

They bypass their usual bars and pubs for an actual restaurant this time, on the other side of the city. Clint parks in the parking garage instead of the street, muttering something about birds not respecting good taste, and they get seated in a nice, quiet corner.

Just because it’s a restaurant, though, doesn’t mean they don’t serve alcohol. Natasha springs for wine, because she can pull it off; Sam gets a scotch on the rocks, which he hasn’t had since Stark took him and Natasha to Per Se, and Clint doesn’t get anything, presumably because he’s worried about crashing his car.

Sam can understand that. He wouldn’t want to crash a 1970 Challenger either.

Dinner is nice, nicer than anything he knows how to make. Apparently they’re all eating on Steve’s ridiculous backpay, so Sam only feels a little guilty about ordering New York strip steak, and even less when he actually tastes it.

They makes quiet conversation over a couple of candles flickering on the table. They tell Clint about their trip to Switzerland and he tells them about accidentally buying a building to save some of his old neighbors and they laugh at the ridiculousness of their lives. Clint steals a sip of Natasha’s wine and hums in pleasure and Sam is suddenly very aware of how close Clint is on his right. She responds by stealing his napkin, and he steals hers, and they laugh at each other so easily that Sam can’t help but feel at ease with them. He knows nothing bad will happen to him when Clint and Natasha are around.

At some point he realizes that his hand is on Clint’s thigh, but Clint doesn’t seem to react to it. He’s in the middle of a story from SHIELD and Natasha is snorting into her wine glass and Sam knows there’s a stupid smile plastered on his face, but he can’t help it. He loves Natasha - she’s one of the best friends he thinks he’s ever had, after Riley and maybe Steve - and he can’t help but love Clint too, because they come together. They work in tandem and he would never want to pull them apart.

He leans into Clint’s side in the middle of Clint’s sentence and says, “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

Clint breaks off and turns to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure? There’s still a dessert course if you want it.”

“Yeah, I want to go.” He’s on the fading edge of tipsy, but he’s not drunk by any means and he knows he’ll be completely sobered up by the time they get back to the house, but the scotch makes the words come a little easier than they perhaps usually would. His nose brushes against the rim of Clint’s ear. “Let’s go back to my place.”

Clint nods jerkily. “Okay. Finish up then.” Sam pulls himself away and finishes the last few bites of his steak while Natasha calls the waiter over and hands over something that looks suspiciously like an AmEx Black card. Sam would care more, he thinks, if he wasn’t busy watching Clint’s leg bounce anxiously. For once Clint’s jeans don’t have little rips and tears in them. Sam wonders how he gets them.

Natasha signs off on the receipt and then stands up, swinging her long coat around her shoulders. She holds out one hand and Clint reaches forward to take it because he’s closer, and Sam trails them out, hands shoved in his pockets, waiting for an opportunity.

That opportunity ends up being against the door of a red 1970 Dodge Challenger. Sam follows Clint around to the driver’s side and pushes him gently up against the side of the car. Clint’s body language is instantly defensive, and then the tension fades away when Sam takes his face in his hands and kisses him. Clint tastes like herbs and a little bit of Natasha’s wine and a little bit of something else that he can’t quite name. It’s intoxicating.

Sam pulls away when he feels a tug on his sleeve and then Natasha is kissing him, leaning against the car door next to Clint. One arm winds around her waist automatically and one of her hands is on his jaw, coaxing him on. She bites at his lower lip and he groans quietly and feels a bigger hand settling on his waist. Clint is watching them, eyes flickering back and forth between Sam and Natasha. Sam doesn’t want to break from Natasha, but he wants to kiss Clint again, and he wants them both, he wants to kiss them both and fuck them both and wake up to their bickering and feel safe between them.

“I want you,” he breathes against Natasha’s lips. “And I want him.”

“We know,” she murmurs in reply. “Come get us.”

The both turn back to Clint, whose bottom lip is trapped between his teeth as he watches them. “Clint?” Sam prompts.

“Yeah.” Clint’s voice is rougher than Sam’s ever heard it. His body feels pleasantly tingly.

“I want you,” Sam repeats.

“Okay.” Clint looks like’s about to lean forward, and then seems to second guess himself. “Are you… Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Sam says. “Now kiss me before we go back to my house and I show you how much.”

Clint’s eyes flutter closed for a second, and then he’s kissing Sam again, hard. Sam lets out a surprised grunt, and then Clint’s hands are on his neck, under his jaw, holding him still.

Clint is a good kisser.

He feels a brush of hair against his cheek and then Natasha’s there, pressing kisses against Clint’s neck. Clint moans into Sam’s mouth and tips his head to the side, and then Sam feels more than hears his sharp intake of breath as Natasha presumably bites down. “Okay, okay, stop, stop, stop,” Clint gasps out, pushing them both away. “I have to drive, save it.”

Sam blinks and looks around and remembers they’re in a parking garage and feels his face heat up. “Yeah, right. My bad.”

Clint raises his eyebrows and pulls the driver’s side door open. “Get in. I’ll break some laws.”

“Don’t break any laws, Clint.”

“I’m gonna break some laws,” Clint repeats as he buckles himself in. “Keep up or get out of the car.”

He doesn’t end up breaking that many laws. No one adheres to the speed limit anyway. Not even Steve.

Sam can hear Clint and Natasha behind him as he digs in his pocket for house keys. They’re half pressed into him, half pressed into each other, speaking in low voices that he can’t understand in a language he doesn’t know. It might be Russian. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care very much.

Sam gets the door open with more difficulty than he’s proud of and then Natasha is at his side, pulling him into the house, toward the guest bedroom. Sam vaguely registers the sound of the door closing and their various locks sliding into place, but Natasha’s unbuttoning his shirt while she’s straight-arming him onto the bed, so he closes his eyes and lets her push him back until he bounces off the mattress. She crawls on top of him, plastering her body against his, her legs bracketing his hips and his hands on her shoulders. He doesn’t even hear Clint’s footsteps until there’s a dip in the bed next to him and they both turn to look at him, half-sitting and half-lying and entirely fascinated.

“Come here,” Sam says, and Clint comes, easily led by the hand tangled in his hair. Sam pulls his down and holds him, kisses him how he’s seen Natasha kiss him so many times, and Clint melts above him. He tightens his grip on Clint’s hair and Clint moans again, jerking a little. Sam grins and decides he wants to hear that moan as often as he can tonight.

Natasha shifts above them and Clint pulls back, reaching forward. “I got it,” he breathes, and it takes Sam a moment to realize that Clint’s undressing her, pulling off her shoes and undoing the zipper of her pants and throwing it all in a pile on the floor.

He leaves her bra and underwear - Sam suspects that’s her usual rule - and looks up at her like she’s everything he ever wanted. She smiles at him and strokes his cheek with one thumb and says, “Yours too.”

Clint automatically reaches for his own shirt, tugging it over his head and discarding it in the direction of Natasha’s shirt. He slides off the bed to pull off his shoes and his jeans and Sam and Natasha watch in tandem, appreciating the was his muscles ripple when he leans over and kicks everything away. Clint doesn’t bother with modesty like Natasha does; Sam thinks it’s fitting. She looks perfect in soft cotton and a bit of lace and he looks perfect completely bared, save for his scars. Sam feels his throat run dry as he watches them.

Natasha reaches over and pushes Sam farther up the bed. He leans against the headboard and then Clint and Natasha are upon him, Clint’s lips on his and Natasha’s teeth against his throat. Sam feels torn apart between them, trying to lean in two directions to chase every sensation. He can feel someone unlacing his shoes, someone else undoing his belt buckle; he lifts his hips up accommodatingly so someone (Natasha, probably, but he genuinely cannot tell) can tug his pants out from under his ass. Natasha’s teeth leave his neck and she brushes half of hip open shirt away and her tongue flicks out over his right nipple. Sam arches up a little and his free hand slips away from Natasha’s arm to grab onto the blanket. She hums against his skin, pleased, and then lets her teeth scrape over the sensitive flesh. Clint swallows his shout down easily and his fingers search out Sam’s other nipple through the thin shirt fabric, squeezing and twisting until Sam is squirming, clinging to Clint’s hair and the duvet like they’ll fall away if he lets go.

Natasha abruptly draws back and slips off of the bed and Sam tries to watch her go, to ask why she’s leaving, but then Clint is taking her place, settling over his hips and assaulting the other side of Sam’s throat. Sam tugs on Clint’s hair, then gets an idea - he reaches down lower and squeezes the back of Clint’s neck, the way he’d seen Natasha do, and Clint’s entire body shivers on top of him.

“Fuck,” he whispers against Sam’s jaw. “Can I…”

“Probably,” Sam says. “Can you what?”

“I wanna suck you off,” Clint breathes. “You’ve been gone, I wanna make you feel good. Can I?”

Sam is aware laughter is bubbling up in his chest and he thinks that maybe he’s never been harder in his life and something in his brain makes him say, “You want this?”

Clint nods, licking at what is probably a pretty dark mark along Sam’s collarbone.

“Ask for it.”

Clint stiffens and Sam thinks that maybe he’s overstepped, maybe that’s just something Clint and Natasha do, but then Clint’s hand is running over his chest and Clint is rolling his hips forward so that their cocks rub against each other through the thin material of Sam’s underwear and he’s mumbling, “Please, please, let me,” like it’s genuinely all he wants.

Sam bites back a groan and squeezes Clint’s neck again and says, “Yeah, yeah, go for it.”

Clint’s on his knees between Sam’s legs immediately, licking a line up Sam’s stomach as he works his fingers under the waistband of Sam’s boxers and pulls them down enough for him to be able to pull Sam’s cock out. Sam shivers, because Clint’s hands aren’t all that warm, and they’re calloused and rough where his hand holds his bow and where his bowstring presses through his finger guard, but also because he can feel Clint’s breath hot in his stomach, hovering just above where Sam really wants him to be.

It occurs to him after a few seconds that Clint’s waiting for instruction.

“You wanted to suck me off? Do it,” Sam says. “I bet you’re good at it, show me how good.”

Clint gives Sam’s cock a few quick jerks, then bows his head and takes half of Sam into his mouth at once. Sam gasps, even though he was expecting it, and his hips buck up without him meaning them to. Clint doesn’t even pull away, really, he just backs up with the sudden intrusion and then goes back down, pulling back to work Sam’s dick with his hand and then swallowing him down again, a little at a time. Sam finds his hand back in Clint’s hair - not pushing him down or dragging him around, just holding on. Clint knows what he’s doing. Sam doesn’t need to help.

A movement by the door distracts him and he looks up to see Natasha creeping in, some straps in one hand and something black in the other. Sam thinks his face probably lights up, and then his expression goes slack again as Clint’s tongue works up to the tip of his cock.

“How’s he doing?” Natasha asks, dropping her supplies on the edge of the bed.

“He’s good,” Sam says. “He’s so good.”

Clint shivers again at the praise. Sam cards his fingers through Clint’s hair.

Natasha sits down on the bed behind them and runs one hand over the small of Clint’s back. “Hey, Clint.”

Clint pulls off of Sam’s cock - much to Sam’s displeasure - and twists around to look at her. His eyes are dark, and they look hazy to anyone who doesn’t know Clint. But Natasha knows Clint and Sam knows Clint too, and they both know that even if Clint goes down, he’s still alert. He lists to the side a little, so Sam props one knee up to steady him.

Natasha holds up one end of the straps. “Do you want me to fuck you, Clint?”

Clint’s breath hitches in his chest. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Please.”

“Okay,” Natasha says. “Then I need you to get me ready, okay?”

Clint slides off the bed without a word and reaches for Natasha. She lets him unclasp her bra and drops it on the floor, and then spreads her legs apart a little. Clint drops down on one knee and starts winding straps through Natasha’s legs, buckling them tightly.

“You ain’t gonna take those off?” Sam asks from the bed, gesturing at her panties.

Natasha shrugs one shoulder. “The straps chafe sometimes.” She reaches over Clint and hands him the dildo - the Black Widow dildo, Sam notices, and tries not to laugh, because Clint looks so serious about it. Clint takes it and works it through the O-ring in front, then buckles the last two straps in.

She strokes his cheek again. “Thank you Clint.”

He nods almost imperceptibly.

“You were doing a good job with Sam,” she reminds him. “Why don’t you go back and do that while I get you ready?”

Clint says “okay” in the same moment that Sam says “oh shit” because he realizes exactly what’s about to happen and his cock twitches of its own accord and then Clint’s back on the bed, crawling toward him with a single-minded determination that is somehow more attractive than anything the man can do with his mouth.

Well. Maybe.

Clint braces his hands on Sam’s hips and runs his tongue around the slit of Sam’s cock, then breathes deeply through his nose and then swallows as much of Sam down as he can. Sam nearly punches himself in the face trying to stifle his moan.

Natasha settles behind Clint and Clint tenses when he hears the pop of the lube cap, but then he relaxes again when Natasha rubs her hands over his back. She presses her thumbs lightly into the muscle and Clint groans around Sam’s cock.

Sam’s voice cracks a little as he says, “Hey, Nat, do that again.”

She laughs a little but digs the heels of her hand into Clint’s lower back and Sam feels the resulting groan in his entire body.

Natasha scratches Clint’s back lightly with one hand while she fumbles with the lube bottle in the other. “Clint, you gotta relax for me, okay? I want to fuck your ass, and Sam wants to fuck your mouth. We want to do it at the same time, so you have to relax, okay?”

Sam’s eyes grow wide but Clint nods and shifts his weight a little so he can support himself more on his elbows. Sam hears a slick sound beyond the slope of Clint’s back and then suddenly, Clint gasps around him and pulls off of his cock entirely, resting his forehead against Sam’s hipbone.

“Come on, that’s just one,” Natasha says. “You can take one finger, right?”

“Yeah,” Clint grunts. “‘m good, ‘m good, do it.”

Natasha twists her wrist a little and Clint clutches at Sam’s sides, breathing hard through his nose. After a minute, Natasha takes her hand from Clint’s back and picks up the lube again, dripping some straight onto her hand, and then she slowly pushes a second finger in. Clint arches away from her, so Sam places one hand on Clint’s back, between his shoulder blades, and pushes down. Clint stills again and his nails dig into Sam’s sides. Sam supposes that it’s been a while.

Natasha has slim fingers, so she drags it out, makes Clint take three fingers, and then four, and she stretches him out just the way she does to Sam. She refuses to touch their prostates if she can help it, choosing instead of work them open efficiently and refuse to give them anything until she’s ready. Sam finds it frustrating as hell when she does it to him, but it’s got a kind of sadistic appeal watching her do it to someone else.

Her hand slows down until it comes to a stop and she reaches up and grabs a fistful of Clint’s hair. His mouth drops open as he arches back to follow her but he doesn’t make any noise. Sam thinks he looks almost serene. It looks nice.

“Sam still wants your mouth, Clint,” Natasha reminds him.

Clint nods in her grip and, when she lets go, he drops back down onto Sam’s cock and sucks hard. Sam grits his teeth and does an admirable job of not jamming his entire cock down Clint’s throat, although a tiny part of his mind thinks that Clint could probably easily take it. He puts his hand back on Clint’s head and pushes down gently and Clint goes without any resistance, like that was the only thing stopping him.

Sam hears something crinkle and looks up from the way Clint’s eyelashes fall on his face to see Natasha unwrapping one of the Falcon condoms. He gapes at her and she grins, winks, and puts a finger to her lips. Sam covers his own mouth again, more to keep from laughing than anything, and Clint apparently takes that a challenge, because he redoubles his efforts and this time Sam does drive his hips up hard. He doesn’t mean to, but that one little part of his brain was right, because Clint takes it like it’s nothing and fuck if that isn’t so hot that Sam has to stare at the ceiling to keep from coming right there.

Natasha rolls the Falcon condom onto the dildo and pours perhaps more lube than is necessary on it, and then drapes herself over Clint’s back, wrapping her arms around his chest. “How’re you doing, Clint?”

Clint nods a little, as much as he can.

“Do you need a break?”

He shakes his head minutely and grips Sam’s sides a little tighter.

“Good boy,” Natasha says fondly. Clint sighs through his nose and Sam pets his hair a little.

“Natasha’s going to fuck you now, okay?” His voice is scratchier than he anticipated. He sounds a little wrecked. Not that Clint or Natasha would judge him for it, but Sam surprises himself. “You’re gonna suck me off just like you asked and she’s gonna fuck you onto me.”

Clint nods in agreement and taps on Sam’s side three times.

Sam looks at Clint’s hand, and then up at Natasha. “What’s that?”

“He’s good,” Natasha says. “Three taps is good.”

“Good to know.”

Natasha straightens up again, balancing on her knees, and carefully spreads his legs a little more so she can start working the dildo into him. Clint turns away from Sam and his hands drop from Sam’s sides and clench into fists and Sam knows the burn. He knows the burn well. He knows how addicting it can be.

Clint doesn’t relax again until Natasha is fully settled inside him. He takes a few deep breaths, shifts his hips minutely from side to side, and then rasps, “I’m good.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“Awesome. Get back here.” Sam does hesitate this time when he hauls Clint forward and shoves him down on his cock. Clint’s surprised noise is muffled, but he doesn’t appear to be in pain and he only pulls back once, to ride out his gag reflex and breathe until his throat stops spasming, and then he lets Sam take control again and Sam revels in it. He drags Clint where he wants him, thrusts shallowly into his mouth because he can, because the look on Clint’s face is as blissed out as Sam would like to be one day. Maybe there’s something to this submission thing.

Natasha grips Clint’s hips tightly and rocks out a little, and then back in. Then again, a little harder, a little faster, when Clint doesn’t react. She builds up fast and he keeps on working at Sam’s cock, bobbing his head and working the flat part of his tongue along the entire underside of Sam’s cock every time he draws back. Natasha grunts in frustration and says, “Hold him,” so Sam pins Clint’s shoulders down tightly and Natasha hauls his hips back to meet hers and there’s the reaction she was looking for. Clint’s entire body goes rigid and he whines more than moans and he tilts his hips up a little more.

Natasha hums the opening to “Face Down” again and Sam almost comes right there from trying not to laugh.

Her thrusts are short and sharp and pinpoint accurate, and Sam doesn’t even have to try anymore. Natasha drives Clint forward, onto his cock, and then pulls him away again. Clint has his hands braced against the bed, knuckles white in the blanket, and Sam’s nails are digging scratches in Clint’s back that are sure to be there tomorrow.

Natasha reaches out with one hand and catches the loose collar of Sam’s shirt and hauls him forward. She kisses him hard, open-mouthed and sloppy, stealing his breath, fucking it out of him through the man between them. Sam manages to get one hand caught in her hair, manages to leave a few dark bite marks on her neck that will take a lot of makeup next time she has to go out, manages to leave her gasping to match him. To match the both of them.

“Fuck, Nat,” Sam pants as she digs her nails into his shoulder. “I’m close as hell, should I–?”

Nat gives him a wicked smile and lets him go and snaps her hips forward hard, and then she’s pouring every bit of her not unimpressive strength and attention into pounding into Clint. Clint’s letting out tiny moaning noises every time she thrusts forward. There are a couple of tear tracks down his cheeks where he had to force his gag reflex into check, and his lips are red and swollen, even as they’re held open, but he looks so completely at peace with himself.

“Clint?” Sam manages.

Clint finally opens his eyes again and stares up into Sam’s at it’s that look, the one Clint’s given him so many times before. It’s sharp and intense and every bit of attention and focus that Clint Barton possesses, lasered directly at Sam like he’s the only thing that matters.

And that tips him over the edge.

He’s not proud of the fact that he shouts and doesn’t bother to cover his mouth, or the fact that he’s babbling afterwards about how good he is, how good she is, how good they are together, or the fact that he didn’t even ask if Clint would have preferred to spit instead of swallow. But in the moment he doesn’t care, because this feels like an orgasm that has built up for over two weeks, and Clint is so good and Natasha is so good and he loves them both more than he may understand.

It takes a long time to come down, but he does, once his cock starts to ache from overstimulation. He shuffles backwards and rolls to the side, kicking off the boxers he’s absurdly still wearing around his thighs and shrugging out of his shirt. He hears Natasha shift behind him and a slick pop as she pulls out of Clint completely.

“Tasha…”

“I know, I got you.” She looks over at Sam. “Give me a hand, pass me one of those.”

He finds the small pile of condoms still packaged on the bed and tosses one to her. She catches it with one hand, works on the buckles of the straps with the other, until Sam leans over and does them for her. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” The straps fall away and Natasha kicks them to the ground. There are red marks all over her hips and inner thighs. Sam thinks they look like art.

Natasha rips open the condom nudges Clint’s thigh with her knee. He rolls over, propping himself up on his elbows as she pinches the tip of the condom and rolls it onto him. Sam suddenly realizes that Clint’s been hard the whole time and he didn’t even think to do a damn thing about it– but that was the plan all along. These two always always have a plan, and this was it.

Natasha wiggles out of her panties and tosses them behind her and then straddles Clint, sinking onto him in one smooth motion. They gasp in unison, reaching for each other, and Sam wasn’t great at literature in school but he feels like he could wax poetic about how they look like one being together. Her hands are on his shoulders and his are on her hips and they work together smoothly; Sam can’t tell if she’s riding him or he’s thrusting into her or if it even matters.

It doesn’t really matter.

Sam thinks about backing off, about going to take another shower and collapsing into his own bed, but as if on cue, two hands shoot out to keep him from getting up. Natasha’s hand is on his shoulder again; Clint is guiding his hand toward where their bodies meet. He presses Sam’s fingers against Natasha’s clit and Sam gets the message pretty quickly. He shifts so that he can sit next to them, so that he can rub Natasha hard without elbowing either of them in the face, and between him and Clint, Natasha rapidly falls apart, gasping out Russian curses that Sam’s only heard a few times before.

Usually after Natasha comes, Sam gives her a bit of a break before they keep going, but Clint pushes straight through. He’s definitely thrusting into her now, and Sam doesn’t know how he has the stamina after everything they’ve run him through, but he’s clearly well-versed in how to get Natasha off, because it only takes a few minutes before she’s burying her face in his shoulder, biting hard enough that he cries out with her and Sam is worried that she’s split the skin.

They don’t come in unison. They’re not that stereotypical. It’s more like Natasha drags Clint over the edge after her, and he chases her down, clawing at her hips and swearing right back at her, at Sam, and half of it is completely unintelligible but its meaning is pretty clear.

Natasha swats Sam’s hand away as Clint’s body slows to a stop and they stay there for a little while. Natasha wipes a few strands of sweat-dampened hair of her face and pushes Clint’s hair back on his forehead, then leans down and presses a kiss to the exposed skin. He reaches for her and kisses her properly, almost chastely. It’s almost funny, given their frenzy moments ago. It makes Sam’s chest pleasantly warm.

Then Natasha climbs off of Clint and crashes into Sam, curling up against him immediately. Clint strips off the condom, squinting at it for a moment, and then ties it off and throws it in the direction of the trash bin. He grabs his own shirt and towels off a little bit, then throws it back on the floor and crawls up to join them.

“You’re disgusting,” Natasha says without opening her eyes.

“I have another shirt in the car,” Clint shoots back.

“Still disgusting.”

“Don’t care.” He kisses her again, and then leans over her to kiss Sam. “Hey, thanks.”

“Man, don’t thank me, that was awesome,” Sam says.

“Mmhmm.” Clint looks smug under the exhaustion.

“I’m tired,” Natasha declares. “Either tuck in and shut up or go sleep on the couch.”

Clint settles down next to her, tucking his head under her chin, and Sam pulls the duvet out from under them so he can cover them all with it. He drapes his arm over Natasha’s waist and squeezes Clint’s arm, rubbing circles over his wrist with his thumb.

Their breathing patterns all fall into sync after a while and Sam is just about to drift off to sleep when he hears Clint’s voice.

“Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You were right.”

“Hmm?”

“The wings are ribbed.”


End file.
